


Light My Fire

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cats, Deaf Castiel, Deaf Character, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Fire, Firefighter Dean, Firefighter Sam, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sam is a Saint, Victim Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6566560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam rushed inside to Dean aggressively shoving the man into consciousness. “Is he—?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” replied Dean. For as heavy a sleeper as he was, Dean didn’t expect the guy to be so robust. He understood the expression “like a log” more than ever before. </p><p>Just then, the guy’s eyes, a deep, impenetrable blue, blinked open. That was, before he drank in the scene like a shot of malt vinegar. He shot his head between the brothers, breaths quickening between his lightly parted, plush pink lips. Then his hands flew out from underneath his sheets with his fingers arranged like crab claws or some sort of gang sign, bounced off his chest, and stopped at both sides of his face.</p><p>Oh, shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light My Fire

 

Dean got the call at 10:53pm.

By then, the dragon of a flat was breathing fire from its nostrils. From air-tight seal around the windows, to the door—even the roof huffed and puffed like the Big Bad Wolf. The smell was always the worst, that extra crispy, extra nose-curling stench that hit the brain faster than Opium. Dean has been on the force for five years and he doesn't think he'll ever get used to the stickiness of his suit or dryness in his mouth.

Bobby’s South Dakotan accent put a spike through his zigzagged train of thought: “I don’t pay you boys to swallow your thumbs with your fat asses, go, go, go!”

The crew rushed in behind Dean. Benny, Cole, and Adam tended to the fire while Dean and Sam rushed down the hall in pursuit of the victims. All the doors were sealed tighter than a pickle jar, and the heat blowing in their faces didn’t help that fact: Reason why he brought Sam over his other teammates. Proverbial Jolly Green Giant he was, Sam had no trouble kicking each door open Indiana Jones style.

Dean mentally rattled off the list like a prison officer during count: Kitchen, _clear_. Bathrooms, _clear_. Guest room, _clear_. Bedroom—

“Sam!” he yelled over the fire alarm. Laying on an air mattress and sleeping like a sloth wrapped in blue cotton, was a man maybe five or six years his senior, judging by the premature wrinkles around his eyes.

Sam rushed inside to Dean aggressively shoving the man into consciousness. “Is he—?”

“I don’t know,” replied Dean. For as heavy a sleeper as he was, Dean didn’t expect the guy to be so robust. He understood the expression “like a log” more than ever before.

Just then, the guy’s eyes, a deep, impenetrable blue, blinked open. That was, before he drank in the scene like a shot of malt vinegar. He shot his head between the brothers, breaths quickening between his lightly parted, plush pink lips. Then his hands flew out from underneath his sheets with his fingers arranged like crab claws or some sort of obscure gang sign, bounced off his chest, and stopped at both sides of his face.

Oh, shit.

Sam beckoned his attention with a gentle hand on his shoulder. The man turned, watching Sam’s long hands frantically worm up and down, then transition into a faster string of signs that had the man jumping out of bed like a kernel in a microwave.

Thank God for strong, independent deaf girlfriends named Eileen.

Dean supported his weight with the long line of his shoulder when he broke into a coughing fit. Sam shadowed close behind, doing a double take around him for anything or anyone they might have missed.

When they reached the front door and got hit with a cold gust of air only Kansas could supply on such a night, Dean rushed the man off to the paramedics. Luckily, aside from the chest-heaving sounds coming out of him, he had no major burns or injuries from what Dean could see. He sent Sam with him, just in case he needed someone to speak in confidence with.

He hadn’t noticed the other three men file out of the apartment—Benny in particular, who knocked his shoulder with a little too much force, “Hey, you okay, Chief?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said, shaking his head to get a rise out of Benny’s brown sugar beard, “yeah, I’m good.”

***

Dean wasn’t sure why he was there, but he knocked on the door anyway.

“Can I help you?” the man on the other end asked, words lightly slurred together. His voice was akin to a power saw, deep and grating, sending debris flying up Dean’s spine.

Dean peered inside before shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. “Castiel Novak?” The man titled his head to the side when Dean realized he stated his name indirectly. “Castiel?” he repeated to his face before lending out his hand. “Dean Winchester, the moronic firefighter from a few nights ago.”

Castiel charily accepted his hand as his blue eyes blinked open slowly and individually, like the black cat crowding beneath his feet. “Right. What brings you here? Is something wrong?”

“No, I-uh, actually the opposite,” Dean sputtered with a shaky laugh, “You look pretty okay. Not to say you’re not a good looking guy, just, you know, considering what happened, that’s all I really— _achoo!_ ” Dean rubbed his nose, which wasn’t the only thing on his face turning Rudolph red. “I see why you’ve had all this bad luck,” he tried when he regained his balance. “I mean, you know, ‘cos black cats are indigenous to bad luck—”

Castiel cut him short with a laugh as he opened the door a little wider, “Do you want to come in?”

“Sure.”

Castiel guided Dean through the door, past the marble kitchen on the left and into the living room, complete with wooden flooring, a curved LED television and black Wii encased by a cherry wood entertainment center, a leather couch and recliner exhibiting raccoon fur pillows, a coffee table, and a French door that followed Genesis’s (not the band, unfortunately) most renowned passage.

“The cat is my cousin, Gabriel’s,” Castiel said before stopping short of the… holy shit, there was a mini bar. “I’m bunking here until I find a new roommate. He insists on me getting an animal to replace the one I had. Drink?”

Dean waved away the offer. “Recovering, actually.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, setting down his Bourbon and Coke. “Sorry.”

“Don’t stop on account of me,” Dean laughed once Castiel faced him again. “Would you stop eating a cheeseburger if you found out you were out with a vegan?”

“Depends how good the burger is.”

“Oh, Cas,” Dean chastised, falling comfortably into the couch. His head even lolled to the side a little. “You obviously haven’t had a good burger.”

Cas laughed, taking his drink to the recliner, “And you’re the expert on food?”

“As a matter of fact I am. I make the best burgers your buds have ever— _achoo!_ ”

“Alright, don’t get yourself worked up,” Cas joked, traipsing to the kitchen. (If anyone asked about his whereabouts that day, Dean _definitely_ would not mention following the salt and pepper shake of his ass underneath his slacks.) When he returned, it was with a little pink pill and a glass of water. “Master Chef.”

Dean shook his head with a wry grin. The calloused pads of his fingers brushed Cas’s as he accepted both items. After a few good gulps, he set the glass on the coffee table and smothered his hands between his thighs. “So, this roommate of yours—or _ex,_ sorry… why weren’t they at your apartment the night of the, uhm…?” Dean attempted signing “fire” like Sam had that night, but probably looked like a spastic five-year-old.

Cas nodded encouragingly, “That’s pretty good. Not a lot of people try to communicate with me that way.”

“Well, they’re idiots,” Dean stated, as if it were the formula to the world’s never-ending list of problems.

“Balthazar,” Cas said, trying to brush past the observationally obvious fact that his face was ripening like a cherry tomato, “his name’s Balthazar. He got fired from his job at the local library recently, so he’s been sort of… on edge, drinking, partying, staying out until dawn. I left him five text messages about what happened a few nights ago, but haven’t received a response.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah… I sent out a missing person’s yesterday.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s alright,” Cas reassured, forging a small smile while tapping the rim of his glass. “Sometimes it feels better, you know? Not having someone to hover over you like an infant ready to scream.”

“You don’t seem like a bother,” Dean stated, making sure to look Cas in the eye as he said that. “Your _cousin,_ though… ” He paused to let the unhurried sway of his head determine his surroundings once more, “He seems pretty high maintenance.”

Cas laughed, “You’d be right about that. Believe me, he was my last resort…” Cas paused too, taking a sip from his liquor again before humming around the contents. “Was that your brother, the one fluent in ASL?”

“Yeah,” Dean scoffed, “I’m surprised you could tell what he looked like underneath that hornet’s nest of hair.”

“He’s very nice.”

“He’s a good kid.” There was a silence that hung over them until Dean ran his hands over his knees and asked, “Hey, Cas?”

Cas gave him his undivided attention. “Yeah?”

“How do you say ‘Will you go out with me sometime?’ in ASL?”

Instead of an answer (or maybe it was), Cas lifted himself from the recliner, sauntered over to Dean, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

 

 


End file.
